


Quoth the Raven, Nevermore

by Emanium



Category: DCU
Genre: Angst, Emotional Roller Coaster, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, Romance, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-24 16:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4926004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emanium/pseuds/Emanium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bruce gets amnesia, Clark transfers his memories to Bruce with Kryptonian technology. But everything has a price. For each memory he transfers, Clark loses his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Presage

Whenever Clark visited the Wayne Manor after the attack, he saw an animal perched on top of the fountain. Gloomy skies folded over the mid-day sun. The ebony bird glared down at him with eerily knowing eyes.

It was an omen of death.

There was something telling in those dark beads of wisdom that made Clark rethink shooing it away. Instead he pushed open the doors to the empty mansion and walked inside. The raven's unnerving gaze chased after him till the door clicked shut.

The Manor had been empty since Bruce's return.  _It's understandable,_  Clark thought. Bruce couldn't remember anyone. Not Alfred, not Dick, nor any of his other protégés. He must have chased everyone out, or they all decided to give him some space.

Bruce had suffered severe memory loss since the attack. The bright side was that his brain remained resourceful, intelligent, and cautious. But while he retained all the necessary pieces to become a superhero, they didn't fuse. Bruce now had every potential to become what he was meant to be. An observant businessman, a tactful stock trader, or a psychopathic socialite. But he did not remember a childhood shooting. He had no motives to become Gotham's guardian. Neither had he remembered his parents, nor questioned their absence.

Clark reached the Batcave. Instead of strolling in like he used to, he merely pushed the lead-lined door open by a fraction. He sneaked a peek at the retired masked vigilante.

The man was holding two pieces of a car engine together. His unusually gaunt face was framed by the pair of goggles perched on top of his head. He lowered his goggles, and brought up a cordless heat gun. Sparks of white lit up inches before his face and highlighted his now prominent cheek bones.

Suddenly he threw the heat gun onto the table and yanked his goggles off. "What do you want?" Irritation filled his expression. His heated glare seemed to bore through the lead-lined walls. "This is the seventh time in two weeks."

"I thought it would be nice to have lunch together." Clark pushed open the door. At least no Batarangs reached his face. "Since Alfred isn't here, I've brought some sandwiches."

"I don't know any Alfred."

"Yes, I see that's part of-"

"And I don't know you." Bruce's eyes lingered briefly on Clark, trailing his facial features. "I certainly don't want to have lunch with another stranger. And I'm very close to calling the cops on you for breaking into this house."

The fact that Bruce said he would call the cops was another trigger. No matter how much Bruce trusted Commissioner Gordon, he was never dependent on the GCPD.

"I explained yesterday that I'm Clark Kent." Clark tried, but no spark of recognition registered in Bruce's eyes.

The core issue, the one that stopped all progress with recovery, was this. Bruce's brain couldn't retain memories. Clark attempted to make new memories with Bruce. He restated his relationship every day, but Bruce's brain lost the information shortly. A few hours was all it took for Bruce's brain to wipe out all that it had received.

Even when Clark explained his memories thoroughly to Bruce, the man didn't truly comprehend. It was a vague description of something that didn't exist in his mind. Something he couldn't recall, that was not associated with any emotions, any sensory information. It was a completely, frustratingly blank description.

Bruce had never been a patient man, and he never did like listening.

"Get out." Bruce didn't use a possessive term. Not "my house" or "my cave". None of his words carried a "mine" connotation. Above all, Clark wouldn't expect to hear "my city". Bruce no longer held Gotham dearer than a random patch of land his shelter stood on. Batman was, at long last but completely, gone.

_Should I be happy for you, that the past that has haunted you and defined you is now wiped out of existence?_

"Bruce-" Clark pleaded, holding up his basket.

"Don't you dare call me by that name." Bruce's glare was unrelenting. "You don't know me. Don't pretend that you do."

Clark bit his lip and refrained from correcting the hurtful words Bruce had thrown at him.  _I know you very well, Bruce. I've known you well enough to propose, and you've known me well enough to say yes._  But after the first day, when Clark had explained everything and Bruce had dismissed everything, he had learned painfully that no words could convince Bruce.

Bruce now lived alone, in a world that was exclusive to all that he remembered, all whom he remembered. Among them, there was no Clark.

"I know... who you once were." Clark said instead, aiming for a convincing but factual voice. It came out like a rope was tightening on his throat. Nevertheless, he made his point. "You can have these sandwiches. And I… I won't bother you again."

That was a lie. One that Clark no longer felt guilty stating over and over again. Bruce never remembered it anyway.

He put the basket onto one of the cleaner desktops. One he knew was outside of Bruce's working boundary. He hoped it wouldn't cause the man to jump and shove his sandwiches to the ground.

Bruce's watchful gaze followed him around. Finally he waved his hand dismissively. "Get out, and don't come back."

Something clicked in Clark's mind. A surge of hope that he allowed to consume him all too fast. "How did you know that I've come seven times in the past two weeks?"

Bruce's eyes narrowed at him. "I marked it down, stalker."

"What about our conversations? We've talked." Clark pointed out hopefully. His voice quivered with anticipation.

" _You_ 've talked." Bruce chided. "Yes, I marked down which minute you started and which minute you stopped. I didn't deem the content important."

_You didn't deem your past important. None of what I said mattered to you._  Clark felt his heart bleed a little. A small part of it broke off like fractured kitchenware. Glass hit the ground with an ear-piercing shatter.  _The entries, the information, the photographs... Everything that you have to know, you need to know, is there. It's in that giant computer database of yours. All you have to do is look._

_And there is one big, framed picture hanging above your headboard in your master bedroom. One you would have noticed right away, had you been paying attention. Had you thought it mattered to you in any way_. Clark withdrew his hand from Bruce's desk, for fear he'd clamp sunken fingerprints onto metal.  _In that picture, we held hands, you wore black and I wore white, and we were signing our souls to a shared eternity. It is the best explanation I could give._

But Clark didn't doubt that Bruce never looked up to that picture, and never once connected the dots. Bruce had no motivation. No reason to change the extravagant - but in many definitions empty - life he lived now. It was a dead end.

Clark forced a smile onto his face and lied again reassuringly, "I won't come back. I promise." His knuckles hurt from clenching his fists. His eyes lingered on the sickeningly pale shade of Bruce's exposed skin. With worry, they crossed onto Bruce's sunken eyes and the bony structure of his face. "Please eat something."

He heaved a helpless sigh when Bruce went back to welding. A fancy race car stood in the background. When Batman was not devoted to the cause of saving the world, he made some damn good vehicles.

"I won't come back." Clark repeated, before turning away from the one person he loved most.

With all his heart, Clark vowed to prove that statement wrong.


	2. The Experiment

_Monday 2:30 p.m. - 4:00 p.m. Psychotherapy_

Clark flipped a page on his schedule. He had doodled a raven on the top right corner. Through the squiggly lines that represented eyes, the drawing glared at its creator. Its disproportionately skinny legs were perched on top of a half-drawn fountain. Somehow, the dark-feathered onlooker in all its haunting knowingness resembled Bruce.

_Thursday 10:30 a.m. - 12:00 p.m. Psychotherapy_

Bruce refused to visit the therapist since two weeks ago. He deemed it a waste of time. Clark didn't think Bruce was taking the prescribed drugs either. He still had to pay for the acetylcholinesterase inhibitors and the memantine tablets. There were also the Clozapine-Quetiapine combinative drugs, which he could hardly afford...

The first news that struck him with actual relief was when his Fortress computer gave him an answer.

"Memory transfer?" Clark's eyes lit up at the screen.

The computer responded in a monotonous voice. "The process extracts the donor's memories. The unique pattern inscribed in the connections between your neuronal cells is replicated. This data is then processed and translated into ingestible neurotransmitters."

"What will happen on the patient's end?" Clark asked cautiously.

Fleetingly his eyes travelled to a photo of Bruce smiling, framed and sitting on his desktop. At times like these, when the stakes were high, the little things haunted him. Bruce's rare smile haunted him. Some risks Clark dared not take.

"The neurotransmitters will update the activity pattern in the patient's hippocampus."

"Are there any other ingredients in the drug that I should be aware of?" Clark asked as he scrolled down the page. It was filled with lengthy biochemical jargons that even he was not coherent in. "What if the patient loses the ingested neural information again? He also suffers from repetitive amnesiac episodes. His brain cannot retain memories."

"Dopamine and acetylcholine can reinforce them until the activity pattern reaches pattern completion." An image of a peripheral intravenous cannula appeared on screen. "Dopamine hydrochloride and acetylcholine injections require a PIVC insertion."

"Are there any precautions that I should take?"

"A dermal anaesthetic with lidocaine and prilocaine can prevent pain associated with IV injections."

Clark closed the pop-up window and returned to the main page. Pain was a lesser concern, and Bruce wouldn't flinch at a needle. "What is the failure rate of this transfer?"

"Unknown. This process has not been tested." The computer responded blandly.

Clark crossed his arms and started pacing around the room. His attention swayed to the medical tablets sitting on the ridge of his console. None had shown any improvement.

A warning flashed on screen. "Do you wish to abort?"

His mind said yes, but his heart said no. There were so many things that could go wrong with this experiment, but…

Clark was sick of returning alone to his apartment in Metropolis. Always, always painfully alone. Mentally broken. Above all, unloved and unwanted. Not so long ago, he had in his hands the most wonderful relationship he could ever ask for. Now it was ripped out of his hands. For nights, his arms reached out to air on a mattress twice too wide. Two pillows lined against the headboard, only one was used. Knowing this situation was not improving squeezed his stomach tighter.

Kryptonian technology… This might give him a chance. It might give  _them_  a chance.

"Boot it up. Log the trial into database three-one-five." Clark unlocked his cabinet and picked up a wireless neuroheadset.

He brought a memory to the forefront of his mind, and trained it there. He should be more cautious, but he was undeniably enthusiastic. Clark wanted Bruce to remember an important memory of their relationship. To share that, and be impressed enough to want to bond with him. To open doors that were now shut, to send out an invitation to land that was now forbidden to Clark.

So full of hope for the better, he chose the memory of their first kiss. He logged his emotions into place, recounting every quickened heartbeat and every experimental touch. He remembered how they both startled each other with the kiss, but quickly eased into it, as if it was meant to be.

… It was. Between him and Bruce, it was meant to be.

Electricity streamed into the headset, warming the sensors on his scalp. He felt each tingling course of energy forcing their way into the complex realms of his mind. He focused all his attention on the way Bruce parted his lips and angled his head. How he gripped Clark's forearms nervously but with certainty. His grip became his final consent that allowed their relationship to bud and blossom. Clark remembered how much Bruce wanted him, just as much as he wanted Bruce.

It had better work.

* * *

To be honest, Clark felt as if the computer had fried his hippocampus and plucked matter out of his brain. Slowly he adjusted to the bright light in the room. Machinery whirred behind him, sending a dull humming noise into his hearing.

He remained curled up in his surgical chair, feeling weary beyond his years. His ears were trained to every sound his computer made. He listened carefully for the slightest mishap.

Eventually Clark fell asleep.

_He was at a funeral. He didn't know whose funeral it was, but he was standing in front of the gravestone. The engraved name was obscured from his vision. His sight blurred slightly, and before he knew there were teardrops rolling off his face. He didn't feel sorrowful at the loss, for he still didn't know whose death it was. But the tears kept rolling, gathering at the drip of his chin, so he resisted the urge to wipe at them with his cuffs. He did anyway, and as he brushed away the moisture, his vision cleared. The name on the gravestone glared back at him, in startling, suffocating clarity-_

At the mechanical beep, Clark woke with a start. His heart was pounding furiously, its frantic protests barely contained within his rib cage.

"Your manufacturing process is complete."

Clark leaped from his chair. A white capsule rolled off a conveyor belt onto a round transparent dish. He took the dish in hand and marvelled at the outcome.

Everything would be all right. All he had to do was to give this pill to Bruce. The moment Bruce takes the pill, one important, endearing memory would return to him. He could do this again and again. He would, no matter how many times it would take. Clark would just have to let Bruce remember the time when they fought hand in hand against…

White spots swam before his eyes. His legs felt weak. For a moment, he thought he had collapsed, then his senses slowly returned to him. Clark laid one hand on the console to steady himself.

_What was that?_

They fought against someone. Superman and Batman, they did. The fight was so close, so dangerous, that they were both moved beyond relief when it ended. They saw each other alive and well, and sparks burst between them. That was what led up to their first…

_What did they do? Pat each other on the shoulder and laugh? Say their congratulations, and head off separate roads?_

Clark shut his eyes. Frantically he clutched at the vague sensation of something drifting away, slowly but surely. Something that was once strong, concrete, and heartwarming, fleeting away from his mind.

_Nothing. It was a world of emptiness. A void of neverending darkness._

Clark blinked, opened his palm, and watched the pill roll back and forth on the glass dish. Something was in there, he knew.

He just didn't know  _what_.


	3. The Treatment

"Are you saying I have mixed retrograde and anterograde amnesia  _and_  dissociative identity disorder?"

Clark arrived late, but early enough to hear Bruce snarl at the therapist.

"No." The blond haired woman sitting opposite Bruce was surprisingly calm. Most people wouldn't appear so nonchalant under Batman's threatening glare. "I believe you have dementia, which is causing prominent memory loss. Your delusions are more akin to schizophrenia than DID. Obviously you are also displaying symptoms of depersonalization, which is..." She took a glance at Clark, then she cleared her throat. "Although the boundaries between external and internal distortions of self are-"

"This is bullshit." Bruce interrupted. He stood up from his chair, gave Clark a stern glare, and stomped out of the room.

"You have to take your medications-" The therapist called after him, but the door slammed back to cut her off.

"Sorry," Clark muttered, seeing the therapist turn to himself. "He's not mentally stable right now."

"Don't be. It's not your fault." The therapist shook her head. "But you have to convince him to come here. He needs treatment. It's only been two weeks since our last appointment, and things have gone downhill." She breathed a sigh and gathered the stacks of documents on her desk. "You need to make sure he takes his medications, okay? You-" Another sigh followed. "He needs it."

Clark nodded pensively. "I'll talk to him." But in his mind, he was crossing off his next session, and all the sessions that followed. He could take care of this himself. He didn't trust a therapist that made it his responsibility to watch Bruce, even though that was what he did. But a therapist that suggested such things made him distrusting.

"Please do." The therapist watched Clark pick up Bruce's jacket.

"Thanks," Clark offered, remembering his good manners despite his dejected state. He held out a hand and stretched it over the consultation desk. A word was at the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't grasp it. Smiling sheepishly, he said, "Sorry, I keep forgetting your name."

"It's Dinah." The therapist's smile was tight, but she stood up and shook his hand firmly.

"What a lovely name."

Dinah's hand froze. She pulled away immediately. "Well, it was my mother's name. We've passed it down for generations."

"I see. Thank you for your patience, Dinah. Bruce can be quite… uncooperative."

"It's all right. I understand. I've had much worse."

Before he left the room, she called, "Clark."

Clark paused in his steps and turned around. Dinah regarded him with eyes full of worry.

"Don't give up."

* * *

"What is your problem, Kent?"

It took three whole seconds for Clark to realize that Bruce used his surname. It was the first time since the incident. There was an almost ecstatic lilt to his voice when he spoke. "You… you remember."

"I typed it down, in case the GCPD wants your name on their most wanted list."

But Clark was oblivious to the sarcasm in Bruce's voice. "What about," he gulped, trying to contain his nervousness. "What about the other things I've said before?"

A raised eyebrow dulled his hopes. "What other things?"

"Our… relationship."  _Our marriage._  "Our line of work."  _Our partnership._  Clark struggled to get his words out. With every neutral phrase he spouted, Bruce raised his eyebrows higher.

"Leave this city, Kent." Bruce grumbled. "Leave me alone."

That last phrase, that hope-shattering statement, broke Clark again. And at that moment, Clark was going to do it. He'd had enough, and he was going to ditch Bruce right there. His hands ached to hit a brick wall. But with effort, through a trembling voice he ground out, "Damn you, Bruce. Damn you. I've been trying so hard to get through this, and you've not been helping at all."

"Are you quite done?" Bruce shoved something into his arms, and Clark realized those were his prescriptions. "I'm leaving. Enjoy your emotional breakdown."

Then he stalked off without a care.

* * *

Clark saw the clear annoyance on Bruce's face when he pulled up at his Manor. Bruce's fast cars were no match for super speed.

Bruce walked past him, up the entrance staircase, and started fumbling for his keys in his pocket. "Are you deaf, or do you just never listen?"

"I need to convince you. I can't live like this."

The door opened. Bruce spat, "You can't, but I can."

"Listen, Bruce-"

The man flung his keys at him and snarled, "Don't use that name on me, Kent! Don't!" His face was raw, his posture defensive. He stood still, steadying his breath.

Clark picked up the keys and placed them on a round table. There was so much dust on the surface. "Please trust me." He pleaded. The flowerless vase on the table had shown his reflection. Clark saw the most helpless expression he had ever seen himself wear. "I would never hurt you. Never."

"Then why wouldn't you leave me alone?"

Clark recoiled at the subtle cracking of Bruce's voice. Bruce's glare aimed for threatening, but his body language resembled a frightened animal. "I can't-"

"It's all about you, isn't it?" Bruce growled. His pale face had attained a sheen of sweat, but its shade did not rival the ashen look that took over Clark's face.

"What?"

" _You_  can't live like this.  _You_  can't deal with me not remembering you." Bruce recounted through clenched teeth. " _You_  need me. What you don't realize is that  _I_  don't need you. No part of my life has anything to do with you."

"God, Bruce, please-"

"I said  _don't use that name!_ " Bruce kicked a chair across the room. It hit and shattered in collision with the round table. "You think it's easy, waking up in a foreign world, owning a foreign body, being stalked after by a foreign man? You think it's fun?"

"Bruce-" Clark realized the abnormalcy before he processed Bruce's words in full. "God damn it sweetheart, you're hyperventilating. Slow your breathing." He caught Bruce in his arms as the slighter man started doubling over, his hand clutching at his chest. Clark could tell the squeezing sensation was intense from Bruce's pained expression.

"It's not easy… and it's not fun." Bruce managed between short, broken gasps of air. "How dare you call me sweetheart..." They both fell to the ground in a heap.

"I know, I know." Clark whispered, stroking Bruce's back in calming long caresses. He could hear Bruce's racing heartbeat. "I'm sorry."

"I saw a photo." Bruce whispered. He swallowed, apparently still struggling with his breathing. His grip tightened on Clark's shoulders. "This morning, when I came out of the shower, it was hung in my bedroom, right above my bed." He admitted quietly. "It's the only reason why I've been letting you off easy, that my fist has yet to connect with your jaw."

Clark's eyes widened at the confession. "Then you know…"

"I can make an educated guess out of that." Bruce pulled away slightly. His gaze was no warmer, but he appeared less cautious. "You may have been my husband, but it means nothing to me. The pair in the picture are strangers in my eyes. It took me hours to find my own name."

Clark kneeled there silently, holding Bruce in his arms. Suddenly he was afraid that Bruce would lose his memory of him again the next morning. All their progress would vanish in a few hours' time.

It was Bruce who broke the silence. Bruce who used the voice he reserved for his spouse on his pillow side. It was softer, more vulnerable, more emotional. "You know what I hate most about all this, Kent?" He began, his lips quivering ever so slightly. "I hate that you're right. You said you can't live like this. Neither can I. I hate what my life has become, having no purpose, no motivation, no history. I feel blind, trapped in my own skin. Confused, frustrated... I remember odd things, random things, like how to make a smoke grenade. In dreams I've fought, I've loved, I've lived. But the moment I wake, my life disintegrates. All I feel is shame, all I see is disappointment. I'm broken. I hate all this, but I won't deny it."

"You're not broken. Nothing can't be fixed." Clark whispered over the sound of his own heart dripping blood. He reached into his pocket, fumbled around, took and held out the memory capsule. "This will make everything work again."

At Bruce's confusion, Clark stretched a reassuring smile across his face. He explained, "It'll take a while, and repeated doses, but it'll…"

"You took this from her." Bruce shoved him away, his stance again defensive.

Clark frowned. "Who?"

"The therapist. You liar."

"Bruce," Clark tried again. "You know what your prescribed medications look like. This is nothing like it."

Bruce's tense muscles relaxed slightly at Clark's sincerity. "Then what is it?"

"It's…" Clark hesitated momentarily. He settled for the truth. "It's a memory."

"A memory." Bruce repeated.

"Yes, it's… Well, it's one of my memories. I can't… I can't explain it in full."  _Because I can't remember it either._  Clark lowered his voice. "You might not remember me, but you know who I am. I'm asking you to trust me, just this once."

Bruce raised an eyebrow dubiously. "I don't do trust."

"Well, don't I know it." Clark smiled weakly. "It's not as simple as this. I have to give you an intravenous injection as well." He pulled out a cannula.

"You've come prepared." Bruce's voice revealed nothing.

"I want this to work." Clark admitted. "So, what do you say?"

Bruce's fingers hovered over Clark's palm with a moment of hesitation. Then he plucked the capsule, threw it in his mouth, and swallowed it dry. He laid out his forearm, and eyed Clark's cannula.

"Deal."


	4. The Memory

"How does it feel?" Clark watched on with concern at the furrowed brows and clenched fists.

This was not what he anticipated. Granted, the extraction process was painful. He just didn't know that memory implantation was equally disturbing to watch. Bruce's limbs started trembling uncontrollably after swallowing the capsule. Clark held out a hand, but Bruce swatted it away.

"... Headache." Bruce managed to say. His voice quivered and cracked.

"Let's get off the floor, okay? We'll find a more comfortable space to..." Clark looked around. Everything was dusty or covered in white cloth. He hadn't appreciated Alfred's efforts as much till then. He supported Bruce on one arm and reached a couch. Bruce sank down with a thump, squeezing his eyes shut and holding his forehead.

"I'm fine." Bruce muttered again, when he saw Clark's anxious expression. Clark was obviously unconvinced. So he explained, "It's just… intense."

"Like something being shoved down your throat without your consent?"

"More or less," Bruce leaned back against the couch. "That was one of the most inappropriate descriptions I've heard in a while."

"It seemed comparable before I voiced it out." Clark admitted, his cheeks reddening slightly. "Your ill-timed sense of humor made it worse."

"... I need water." Bruce croaked. He caressed the underside of his neck. "What's left of the pill is burning my throat."

"I won't be a minute." Clark sped off to the kitchen in super speed the moment he was out of Bruce's line of sight. As he filled a glass, he saw the raven again, watching him while standing on the window sill. He only realized he had been spacing out when water dribbled down his hand. Sheepishly he smiled at the raven, who looked as if it was rolling its eyes, and headed back out.

Bruce was sitting in a completely different posture than thirty seconds ago. He was leaning forward on the couch. His hands were clasped together and his expression was thoughtful. He resembled a billionaire CEO who was about to make an earth-shattering corporate decision.

"Your throat… Is it still burning?" Clark asked as he handed Bruce his water.

"It got better." Bruce admitted. He took the glass and downed a gulp, then he placed it on the neighboring coffee table.

Clark looked uncertainly between the glass and Bruce. Suddenly a hand yanked him down forcefully, and his lips crashed onto familiar warmth. Bruce seized his lips without question. Time remained frozen for Clark. Eventually he summoned enough sense to kiss back, savoring the few seconds that remained. Bruce pulled away a moment later.

Clark stumbled back a step. His eyes widened in surprise.

"I had to know if it was real. Whether it actually feels that way, or you've computed the experience." Bruce muttered. "I don't trust anything that is forcefully occupying my mind. It feels a bit… artificial."

"But the memory… it's there?" Clark asked anxiously.

"Looping in my head like a broken tape." Bruce confirmed. "What it must feel like to have a head full of this is beyond my comprehension."

Clark forced out a chuckle. "When your head is full of it, a single memory is less… intimidating."

Bruce grunted in acknowledgement.

"Does the memory feel like your own?"

Bruce frowned. "Not entirely. It's like a bundled package with your thoughts and emotions." He paused for a second. Then he looked up. "You can fly."

"Why, yes. I'm Kryptonian." Clark stammered. "I'm not... human, so flying is sort of a given for me. I didn't mean to keep it from you… I just thought it's not the most reassuring welcome announcement."

Bruce's frown deepened. "I was wearing a black bodysuit. With pointy cat ears."

Clark almost spluttered, but he stifled it in time. "Bat ears. Bat." He emphasized. "You're Batman. That's the protective armor you wear. It's made of kevlar, and it's bulletproof."

An almost unnoticeable undercurrent of mortification seeped into Bruce's voice. "I have a stage name?"

"An alter ego. Secret identities are for our own good." Clark corrected in amusement. "I'm Superman. You're Batman. It's not as embarrassing as it sounds."

"I'm Batman." Bruce echoed, looking as if he was slowly processing its meaning.

Clark smiled tightly. "Yes, you always have been and always will be."

Bruce regarded him with a silent stare. Slowly he pinched the bridge of his nose. "What a royally fucked life to wake up to."

Clark settled into the other end of the couch. He chuckled, "You'd offend quite a few superheroes with that statement. Besides, you make a pretty impressive caped crusader."

"Is that why you married me?"

Clark's attention spiked at that question. Bruce was still gazing into the distance. Clark assumed he was doing his usual feat of asking questions while pretending not to care.

"That, and… a million other things." Clark smiled and traced the silver wedding ring on his finger. "We've had friction, arguments, and we've fought, every once in a while. But times have generally been good."

Bruce nodded silently.

"Why… did you kiss me?" Clark asked, suddenly uncertain. He was curious about what was going on in Bruce's complex mind. Above all, he wanted to know whether Bruce had tied any string of positivity to his new memory.

"It was looping in my head. And I thought… that physical contact was a positive experience. I could do it again."

Trust Bruce to replace "a kiss" with "physical contact" and "enjoyable" with "positive". Clark shook his head at that quality, which he had always found too endearing for his own good. "I wish I knew…"  _I wish I remembered what it felt like, in that specific memory. But at least now I know it was of a kiss._ "Describe it to me."

"It's  _your_  memory." Bruce gave him a suspicious look.

"I want to know how you found it."

The stagnant pause lasted so long, Clark thought Bruce had long dismissed his request. Then Bruce wiped a hand across his face and stated in hesitation, "It was… fierce. Demanding. It was relief. Longing." He stood up suddenly. "I don't…" He bit his lip. "I'm not good with words."

"No." Clark agreed. "You've never been, especially at describing emotions. Alfred once suggested that you should consult a thesaurus."

Bruce frowned at the foreign name, but he didn't ask about it. Instead he changed the topic. "What's the injection for?"

Clark's mind did a quick rewind of their conversation. "For the memory to stick." He explained. Then quickly he added, "If you want."

"Give me the needle." Bruce pointed at Clark's pocket. When Clark hesitated, he argued, "You want to know what I remember? I remember how to stitch an open wound shut. I remember how to remove a bullet sans anaesthetics. I can't load names or faces, but I can improvise an upper limb surgery. So cut the crap."

"Just be careful." Clark warned, pulling out the instruments. He prepared them while Bruce stripped his belt. With trained awareness, Bruce wrapped it tightly around his upper arm.

"Sure you don't…?" Clark offered uncertainly, but Bruce snatched the needle from his hand. In quick precision, he inserted it into his vein and pumped the solution in. Deoxygenated blood flowed out of his arm the moment he pulled out the needle.

Clark pressed a gauze onto the wound immediately. "I hate seeing blood."

Bruce cocked an eyebrow. "Have you been all talk your entire life?"

Clark shrugged. "For as long as I remember, you've complained that I'm all brawn and no brains."

"Strategic planning and efficiency aren't mutually exclusive."

"We're polar opposites. Opposites attract." Clark pressed another clean gauze onto the wound and wrapped a strip of tape over the gauze. "Next time, please sterilize before you do anything."

"I know what I'm doing." Bruce snapped.

"Sure, when it involves an ample amount of avoidable self-torture." Clark muttered under his breath.

"Oddly enough…" Bruce began. He turned away. "We've been compatible… so far." He touched the taped gauze with his right hand. "You said this is to reinforce my memories. So this isn't the first time I've forgotten again, is it?"

Clark's eyes dimmed slightly. "No, it's not."

"... Am I like this every day?"

"Bruce-"

Bruce turned to look at him. The sharp gaze made Clark swallow his argument.

"It depends. Some days you seem fine. Your newest memories last over forty eight hours." Clark admitted grimly. "Others, they last four or five."

"I see."

"It doesn't change-"  _anything._  Clark wanted to say. But it wasn't true. The memory loss did change many things, that including everything on Bruce's end. What didn't change was how much he wanted the old Bruce back. That was all.

Bruce caught him thinking, and the expression he wore agreed.  _It changes everything._

Clark stood up. Awkwardly he smoothed out a wrinkle in his shirt. "I guess I'll-"

"Stay." Bruce commanded. He didn't look at Clark. "Talk to me… About this life I know nothing of. This ridiculous superhero business. This opposites-attract marriage."

Clark's heart did a small leap. Every day Bruce reminded him that he wasn't interested in his past, and now Clark had it. Bruce's consent that he wanted to learn about his past.  _Their_  past. "It's a long story."

Bruce shrugged. "You have some place to go?"

"Well…" Clark hesitated. "No."

"Come upstairs then." Bruce led the way to the hall. He looked back and forth momentarily to ascertain that it was the right staircase. The Manor had too many directions for an amnesiac. "We'll discuss it in bed."

"Huh?"

"We're not having sex." Bruce gave him a stern glare. "I'm tired. You can bore me to sleep."

"I see sarcasm doesn't go away with memory loss." Clark muttered. He followed Bruce up the staircase.

"Disappointed?" Bruce shot back immediately.

"Relieved." Clark admitted with a smile. He'd be lying if he said the progress wasn't mending his fractured mind. "Relieved beyond compare." He restated.

All he got was another characteristic grunt. Still, that sound warmed his heart like nothing else.


	5. The Progress

"It  _never_  reached pattern completion!" Clark hit an ice block in frustration. An internal partition cracked and crumbled down. "The IV injection was supposed to make him retain that memory!"

He had woken to Bruce's panicked retreat. It was followed by a sound that was most unlike the man in Clark's memories. Bruce had always been calm and composed, never one to vocalize a weakness. But this time, comforting him got them nowhere. Judging from Bruce's defensive posture, they were headed straight for a fight. So Clark left in disappointment and flew straight to the Fortress.

"Perhaps the patient is immune to this planet's organic chemicals." The computer suggested.

"You're telling me this now?" Clark restrained his voice with increasing difficulty. "He's human, not Kryptonian! Why the heck would he be immune to Earth's organic chemicals?"

A red pop-up window bounced into view. "Error: Reason Not Found."

The screen flicked back to its normal interface. "There is no history of memory transfer in the local database."

"Well, how about an international database? Did you search through interstellar transmissions?" Clark growled. Despite how childish he felt, he couldn't stop lashing out at his computer. Eventually he swirled a chair over and collapsed into it. "I can't do this. To nurture love and have it lost, to nurture hope and have it crushed… I can't do this anymore."

He reattached his cape onto his shoulders. "I need to clear my mind. Don't change anything without my permission."

* * *

Clark landed in front of the Manor. He could hear everything that was going on in the master bedroom. Bruce shattering the mirror. Bruce knocking on the bathroom door, until his hands had become bruised and bloody. Bruce slumping down against the door, kicking powerlessly at the rug. Bruce burying his face in his arms, refusing to cry, refusing to show any sign of human weakness. Bruce yielding in time. Clark tried to tune out the muffled sobs.

He couldn't bear going in to watch it unfold. It wouldn't help to show up, not when Bruce was in that state. Instead he sat down at the fountain.

The same raven, whom he had become so drawn to, landed lightly on the fountain ridge.

"Life's unfair, isn't it?" Clark muttered as he held his finger out to the raven. It remained unmoving and silent. Clark was more used to friendlier species. He sighed. "Bruce has done nothing but good for humanity. Why must it be him?"

The raven finally lowered its feather-clad head. Gently it brushed its beak across Clark's finger. The reassuring gesture had a creepy human quality to it. He stiffened slightly at the raven's gaze. It was the same anxious look that that therapist, whatever her name was, had sent him. Clark chuckled self-mockingly. "I'm not the one who needs your sympathy most, little bird. But I thank you all the same."

But the raven seemed unconvinced, and kept brushing its beak against Clark's finger. So Clark reckoned it was another feat of a mindless animal. Amidst the relative silence, he heard a loud crash from the Manor. Then someone stumbled onto the floor. He heard the distinct sound of limbs twisting in wrong, grotesque directions.

"That cannot be good," Clark muttered to himself. He took one last look at the raven. "Sorry, I have to go. I hope to see you around."

In retrospect, Clark wondered whether that was a stupid thing to say to an omen of death.

* * *

Clark didn't know exactly what he expected to see when he approached Bruce's bedroom. Still, it was definitely not what he actually saw.

Bruce was leaning against the sliding bathroom door. His head was cocked to one side and his arms were laid out, palms up, on his lap. He was naked from head to toe. But what startled Clark most was the amount of blood at the scene. His eyes immediately caught its source. Blood was gushing out from a wound on Bruce's upper chest, a spot near his shoulder blade. Slowly he drew his eyes away from the wound and onto the floor. There was a surgical knife laying in a pool of crimson. Along with the knife was a chunk of flesh, freshly carved out of Bruce's chest.

Clark remembered there being a nasty bullet scar where the wound was.

Bruce didn't look up when Clark approached him. He seemed too exhausted to fight back. "You're the man in the picture."

Clark swallowed slowly. He took a step forward, but Bruce's right hand flinched. It inched dangerously towards the surgical knife. Clark stopped in his steps and nodded. "I am."

"Tell me your name."

"Clark Kent." Clark answered softly. "I'm your husband."

Bruce's brows furrowed at that claim. "Tell me mine."

"You're Bruce Wayne, son of Thomas and Martha Wayne. You're thirty-five years old. This is your home on Mountain Drive, in Gotham." Clark waited his fill, then he added quietly, "We need to stop that bleeding."

Bruce lowered his gaze onto the wound. "It doesn't hurt."

"I don't think it's safe to leave it untreated." Clark kneeled down to watch Bruce at eye level. "Can you let me have that?" He gestured at the surgical knife.

Bruce picked up the knife slowly. Hesitation marred his features, then he handed the knife to Clark.

"Thank you." Clark breathed a sigh of relief. "I'll go get a piece of gauze." He said, but he was back before Bruce's eyes caught him moving. Clark applied pressure onto the wound gently. Blood soaked right through the material, but he kept pressing.

"How's your ankle?" Clark asked instead.

A flash of suspicion went past Bruce's eyes. He tried lifting his leg, then he flinched and lowered it again. "Wasted."

"We'll fix it. Nothing that's broken can't be fixed." Clark gave him another reassuring smile, despite the tightening of his throat. If these were the mornings he'd have to see, one day he would break down. He wasn't sure why he wasn't breaking down right then, right there. He was trying so hard to be the stronger one of the pair. Yet all his life, it was Bruce who always had stronger willpower.

"You really like that phrase, don't you?" Bruce muttered.

Clark's heart did a nervous flutter. "Which phrase?"

"Nothing can't be fixed. You said it… some time. Some time before. It was you."

Clark's breath hitched. He bit his lip and sucked in cold air. _It couldn't be._  "Yes. Yes, I did." For a moment he felt his vision cloud, then his tears were welling up faster than he could stop them. "I said that," he choked out. He felt a hand on his back. Bruce's hand, comforting him with a small, awkward pat. What sounded from Clark's lips next was a sob and a laugh altogether. "God, Bruce… I needed to hear that. I… I can't do this without you."

He didn't hear a word from Bruce, but the hand on his back clutched the fabric of his shirt. Then it pulled Clark forward, allowing them to stay close just a fraction more. It was just enough to show Clark that there was some trust in the equation. And for someone as distant as Bruce, that level of trust was a big step forward. Clark allowed himself to cry a little, until he was able put on a mask and smile again. Albeit his cautiousness, Bruce smiled back.

It wasn't much, but it was enough.


	6. The Video

Progress came and went.

It wasn't every day that Bruce remembered who Clark was, or anything he spoke about. But Bruce had compiled a file of essential information, and placed it at his bedside every night. It wasn't every morning that he would flip open that file.

Still, Bruce had ways of tricking his future self to do certain things. Mapping his morning sequence and strategically placing clues in the way was one. Strapping a heart rate monitor and an automatic benzodiazepine injector to himself was another.

Clark continued extracting memories, despite learning its price. Writing about his memory before extraction was one way of retaining it. He was happy to gift his memories to Bruce, regardless of whether the man kept them. Allowing Bruce to relive a happy memory made him content for hours, even if Bruce's memories slip away in his sleep.

Whenever he came across a blank space in his mind, he flipped to the back of his notebook. There he wrote, in Kryptonian, one sentence.

" _I know, no matter how many memories I give away, that I would never stop loving him."_

Clark would read that, nod to himself, and put on his neuroheadset.

* * *

It was three days after spraining his ankle that Bruce wanted to visit Metropolis. The city had popped up repeatedly in his file, but his impression of it was completely blank. No warning made any difference, so Clark sighed and retrieved Alfred's walking cane.

Superman flew Bruce to his apartment in Metropolis. There he changed back into civilian clothes.

"Cozy." Bruce commented at the humble furniture.

"Cheap is one of your more frequently used vocabulary." Clark reminded him.

"That was my best attempt at politeness." Bruce retorted.

"That happens so rarely that I was almost impressed."

Bruce pulled on a cloth on top of the entertainment set when Clark wasn't looking. The cloth fell to the ground and revealed a line of photo frames.

"Hmm… Carrots, potatoes. The chicken looks good." Clark swung the fridge door shut. "Think I've still got some curry powder left. You think chicken curry would be good for dinner?" He took one look at the living room and froze. Bruce was holding up a photo frame. He inspected it for a while, then he put it down and moved onto the next.

"You hid them." Bruce turned around and remarked, almost accusingly.

Clark's eyes trailed down to the fallen cloth. "I did," He admitted quietly. He didn't remember when he had last pulled that cloth off the set. It felt like a lifetime ago. There were some things he didn't need to be constantly reminded of.

Bruce held up a photo of him and Clark eating ice cream on a park bench. In the picture, he was leaning forward, holding up a chocolate cone. There was a small smile on his face, the sort that reached the eyes but wasn't over the top. Clark's hand was clamped on his shoulder. His other hand was holding an over-sized strawberry cone that was in danger of falling to the ground. He was grinning like an idiot.

Bruce held it for a while, then he moved on to the next and let out an amused chuckle. The next shot had Clark's strawberry scoop on the ground, and the man was wearing a look of utmost horror.

"That's Centennial Park. It's only a few blocks away." Clark said from behind him. "You've always liked chocolate ice cream over strawberry. I can't remember who took the shot."

Bruce nodded. His eyes caught onto an unlabeled video tape sitting just below the rack. "Do you have ice cream?"

"Can't remember if I've bought any. I'll go check." Clark turned back to the kitchen. He spotted just the right flavors at the back of the freezer. "Ah. We're in luck."

As he scooped the ice cream into a bowl, he heard a familiar soundtrack playing outside. Something that made his heart rate accelerate. Sweat started accumulating on his palms. He replaced the tubs into the freezer and retrieved two spoons from the cabinet. As he walked out, the video blared louder. One look at the screen confirmed his guess.

The camera shook and swayed, then it turned to a handsome young man wearing a big grin. "Ha, it's working! I was ninety nine per cent sure that little shit broke my baby."

"You think I don't know your dirty little secrets, Grayson, but nothing gets past my eyes!" A teenage voice shouted from afar. "You got that shit from a clearance sale!"

The camera zoomed in on the man's face again, momentarily turning out of focus. It cleared as the man made some adjustments to the camera. "Privileged kid. I'll have you know clearance sales have high quality goods when I go select them personally. No hard feelings, buddy, we're not shooting for the skies." It looked like he was talking to the camera. Then he whispered, "Don't listen to Damian. There's no point comparing to Bruce's four-K surveillance cameras."

"They're melting." Bruce commented offhandedly. He had settled in comfortably on Clark's modest love-seat couch.

Only then did Clark realize he stood frozen two steps beyond the kitchen doorway. He sat down next to Bruce and handed him his bowl of chocolate ice cream.

Bruce ate a spoonful and licked his spoon clean. He pointed it at the screen. "Who's that?"

The screen moved around the crowd and settled on someone holding a red motorcycle helmet.

"Ah, there he is. He's been hiding, you know?" The cameraman whispered. He sneaked his way around a column and aimed his camera at the motorcyclist's face. Then he joined the surprised man in a zoomed in shot. "Say cheese!"

"Clark?" Bruce nudged the man beside him. He paused the video.

Clark's jaw was hanging open. He was holding up his spoon, which rested against his lips, but his ice cream remained untouched. He only responded at Bruce's nudge. "What?" Glancing at the screen again, he said, "Oh." He seemed to struggle with his memory, but eventually he managed, "That's Dick. The kid holding the camera. The one beside him, with the white tuft, that's Jason."

"They know me, don't they?" Bruce frowned. "The cameraman, at least. He said my name."

"They're your sons."

Bruce's eyes widened a fraction. He lowered his spoon onto the glass table. "I have children." He stated. His shock was hardly concealed in his tone.

"Those two you've adopted. Tim as well." Clark said carefully. "Damian is your biological child."

"Four?" Now Bruce looked positively overwhelmed.

Clark shrugged. He tried to hide his amusement, but he knew he was unsuccessful. "Well, you didn't learn your lesson from your first."

Bruce turned back to the screen. Dick was wearing a mischievous grin. Jason was shielding his face, scowling in annoyance. "They look like troublemakers."

"They were the best." Clark agreed. "Window replacements were part of your weekly expenditure."

Bruce stared at the screen for a few stunned seconds, then he resumed the video.

"What the fuck! Get off me!" Jason shoved Dick to one side, and the camera shook with the shove.

"Aw, come on, pouty pants, show some teeth! It's Bruce's big day!" Dick teased. He aimed his camera up to eye level again, but Jason was gone. "Boo, he's no fun." Dick's face got into focus again. "He's just camera-shy, Bruce. I'll catch him again. Actually, you know what-" The camera swept across the crowds. "Hey Wally! Yoo-hoo!"

A flash of red swiped past, then a series of inaudible whispers passed off screen. Shortly after, Dick's face returned on screen. "Jason's gonna get one hell of a surprise. Ooh, here they come." The camera shifted towards a stage, then a pair walked arm in arm into view. "There's my old man. I handpicked that tie with Babs. He looks fab. Clark's looking great. Don't know why they didn't coordinate their suits. Oh, right, bats only wear black. Silly me."

"... an honor, thank you all for coming…"

The camera shook, then it quickly spanned from the ground to the sky and back. Bruce frowned. "Did he just do a one-handed backflip?"

Clark nodded. "Trust me, that's nothing."

"... of course, there have been hard times…" The crowd's laughing ensued. "... well, it's Bruce, he knows no limits… there's also no predicting what the man would say…"

The familiar teenage voice streamed into the scene. "Grayson! Father said no filming."

" _Father_  doesn't know what he's talking about." Dick mimicked Damian's wording, mockingly throwing the syllables in a high-pitched falsetto. "And you know what?  _Father_  is seriously gonna regret not using his four-K cameras, 'cause he's gonna be replaying this vid till the tape molds. All he's got is gonna be this shit quality cam."

"All WayneTech cameras are up and running, Master Richard."

At Bruce's questioning glance, Clark explained, "That's Alfred. I've told you about him."

"They are?" Dick sounded disappointed. The camera was now trained on Damian, who looked surprised, then annoyed.

"Father wouldn't approve of this, Pennyworth."

The calm voice responded, "It is from thirty years of raising that man that I learned one thing. Master Bruce has no idea what he is talking about."

"Ha!" Dick turned the camera back on himself. He raised his chin proudly and declared, "Take that! Alfred's on my side, loser!"

"Master Richard, perhaps you could gift your video to Mr. Kent. I don't suppose Master Bruce will share his videos with his spouse."

"You have the best ideas, Alfred. I owe you one." Dick addressed the camera directly. "So you see, Clark, your partner has some of the highest quality wedding videos hidden in the Batcave. They'll be password protected, but let's hope one day you'll hack into them." He grimaced and muttered, "Chances are the CIA mainframe will be an easier target... Meanwhile, enjoy the show!" He turned the camera back towards the stage.

"... I've built a liking for dark damp places... sunlight is about the worst thing you can introduce… pulling the curtains open before three p.m. is a sin..." Clark's voice was amplified by the microphone. "... a solar-powered alien falling for a negatively phototropic nocturnal animal, it's a joke in itself..." More laughs followed.

"... idiot farm boy…" Bruce was complaining on stage, but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. "... couldn't keep his hands to himself during our missions… brought a whole new meaning to 'team bonding'… and some say he's an innocent boy scout..."

"Jesus fucking Christ, who the fuck painted my motorcycle blue?!" Jason's voice shouted from afar.

"Oh shit! He's found out!" Dick snickered into the camera. "Babs!" He called. "Babs, come here. Take the camera for me."

"What's this for?" Barbara's suspicious voice joined in as the camera switched hands.

"Wedding present for Clark." Dick explained quickly.

"Richard John Grayson!" Jason's voice got closer. "You motherfucking son of a bitch! I'll kick your ass six ways into the next fucking universe!"

"Sorry Babs, I gotta go. Save a big chunk of wedding cake for me, promise? I want a slice with strawberries on top."

"Save it yourself." Barbara retorted. "Bruce will kick both of your sorry asses."

"Which is why we need the vid. First rule of blackmailing, earn your materials. Oh, shit! Wally!"

"Idiots." Barbara's sigh sounded, then the focus of the camera returned to the front stage. Her hold on the camera was much steadier than Dick's. The ceremony proceeded with relative peace.

"Bruce?"

Clark felt his heart sink as Bruce leaned against his shoulder. His breathing slowed and softened. Bruce was dozing off. He didn't do that often. But when he did, especially without warning, he usually woke without his memories. Clark sat there, shoulders still, while wringing his hands nervously. He was waiting for the inevitable panicked screech that would reach him when Bruce woke.

"... but when I woke, despite every ache in my muscles and every crack in my bones… the first thing that came to mind was his safety..." On screen, Clark continued speaking. The crowd had fallen quiet at his speech. "... I couldn't bear losing him. I couldn't. There were so many times that were close, when fate had almost taken him from me... And I thought, I couldn't live without him… I just had to make this life count… make every second count… I had to ask…"

Bruce's voice followed, proudly and with certainty. "... and I said yes."

At that, Clark muted the video. He had already learned every line by heart. All he wanted was to prolong Bruce's nap. He had woken to many panicked Bruces in the past few days. He didn't want to face one more.

It was around twenty minutes later when Clark sensed that Bruce's breathing hitched. Except silence greeted him when he woke. Then Bruce sat up straight and regarded him with a knowing stare.

"This is tearing you apart." It was a statement, not a question.

Clark feigned obliviousness. "What is?"

"Your silent apprehension." Bruce answered. "You're walking on eggshells, waiting for my next amnesiac episode. Always on edge."

"I'm reasonably cautious."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "And I suppose my illness is reasonably annoying."

"It's…" Clark sighed. "It keeps me alert, yes." He admitted quietly. His eyes trailed off to the screen. The video had looped once and returned to Clark's speech. Despite the muted audio, Clark remembered every word. "But then… It probably sounds ill-phrased, but I'd rather you be amnesiac, than be gone. I'd rather we treat this as an opportunity to fall in love again. I can fix you, but I can't… I can't lose you."

"Here are two truths for you, Clark." Bruce leaned back onto his shoulder. "You can't always fix me. And being who I am, I know I constantly need fixing. That isn't up for argument." He put up a hand when Clark started to talk. "And second… One day, you will lose me. Whether you like it or not."

Clark's throat dried. He tasted something strong and metallic in his mouth. He realized then that he had bitten his tongue. The taste of blood assaulted him ruthlessly, reminding him of something painful but unavoidable.

In excruciating clarity, he remembered a line in their marriage vows. Words that were once beautifully romantic, coming back to haunt him in horrifying reality. To everyone else, it was the highest promise to a shared eternity. But between them, it meant the longest separation. An inescapable prison, banishing them to endless isolation.

_Till death do us part._

_Till death do us part!_ Clark's mind screamed. His heart pounded furiously at the notion.  _The irony!_  Immortality, the gift to eternal life, chaining him to everlasting solitude.

Bruce smiled weakly. "But who knows, Clark? In time, we might see each other again."

"In time… or in death?" Clark asked, his voice cracking. He waited silently for any form of denial, hoping that Bruce wouldn't be so brutal, even in words. "How long...? How long must we wait?"

But Bruce didn't shake his head, didn't even try to reassure him. He didn't say years, didn't say decades. Instead he uttered softly, "Centuries and millennia. Buildings will crumble, bodies will decompose, time will pass in agonizing slow motion. Every second will feel like an hour, every day like a year. But…good things come to those who wait, right?" Bruce's tight smile seemed to haunt Clark. Every word he spoke reverberated in his tiny apartment in faint ghostly echoes.

"Good things come to those who wait." Clark repeated emptily under his breath. He said it like a charm, as if his immortality was a curse that he could fight with a magical spell. His hand tightened around Bruce's. "Good things come to those who wait."


	7. The Interlude

Apparently, waking up in Clark's apartment without Bruce's usual setup was a bad idea. The man yelped the moment he woke. Clark knew from his expression that his memory loss was back in full swing.

"You're Bruce Wayne, you're thirty-five years old. You're the son of Thomas and Martha Wayne…" Clark recited it like a script. It was something he memorized, his essential paragraph of material. He held up both hands in a calming gesture. "You have amnesia. Your memory is a little jumbled. You don't remember, and it's all right. Everything is all right." He repeated in a gentle tone.

"Who are you?" Bruce snarled. He quickly dropped into a defensive stance.

That question hurt like nothing else. Clark put his pain behind a mask and explained, "I'm Clark Kent. I'm your husband. This is my apartment in Metropolis. I have never hurt you, and I never will. I promise." He swallowed, took a deep steadying breath, and hoped for his voice not to crack. "Please don't push me away."

"I need to-" Bruce looked around. There was nothing in the room that proved what the man said was right or wrong. "I don't… I don't trust you. I need to see…" He went for the door, but his leg gave way.

"Bruce, your ankle-"

"Don't touch me!" Bruce scrambled back. At that growl, Clark backed away immediately. Bruce spotted the walking cane behind him. It was leaning against the entertainment set. "Get away from me. Now." He demanded again, and Clark backed to the farthest corner of the room. Bruce picked himself up and hopped to the cane.

"I-"  _really don't think you're in any state to leave the apartment._ Clark wanted to say, but the glare from Bruce was enough to shut him up. He waited until Bruce was out the door, then he followed behind him. Clark hovered a little to silence his footsteps.

Bruce didn't use the lift. It seemed that he wanted to see the cityscape from the external staircase. He struggled down each flight, his legs trembling with effort. The walking cane was not easy to control when his perception of height was so muddled.

Clark followed just two steps behind him. And though he knew Bruce was aware of his presence, he didn't dare part from the man.

"Do you need help, Sir?" Clark turned around. A little girl was looking at both of them. Her arm was outstretched.

"He's fine, I'll take care of him." Clark smiled reassuringly.

The girl remained skeptical. Her hand stayed in that position.

Bruce coughed and slipped. He landed on his knee, and a low grunt escaped his lips. His cane fell to the ground.

"Bruce!" Clark stepped forward immediately, but a hand was still on his forearm. He looked up. It was the little girl again, her eyes widening with concern. It struck Clark as odd for just a second, how everyone seemed to regard  _him_  with concern. The therapist, the raven, now this little girl. Yet Bruce, who was always only a few feet away from him, was obviously in more need of help than he was. The second passed, and he was thrown back into reality.

"It's all right." Clark pulled away, getting slightly annoyed. Despite her good intentions, the girl was quickly becoming a distraction. "I'll take care of him. Just... go." He pushed her away without thinking. For a moment the hand on his forearm flinched, then it withdrew. Clark pulled his eyes away from the girl to Bruce, who was clutching his leg.

"Can you stand?" Clark asked softly. He approached the man on the landing in quiet steps. Slowly he kneeled down in front of Bruce.

"I'm fine." Bruce retorted curtly. His hand found his cane again.

"Bruce, stop fighting me. Please. You'll get hurt." Clark begged. His eyes caught the growing purple bruise on Bruce's swollen ankle. He couldn't tell if Bruce had torn his ligaments. "I'm not stopping you from going anywhere, but this leg injury is more serious than you think. You need to rest and wait for it to heal."

"You can break me," Bruce growled, in a tone reminiscent of Batman. "But you can't manipulate me."

It seemed that Bruce's distrust only grew with Clark's explanations. Any insinuation that Clark wanted control over the situation prompted Batman's personality to surface.

Running out of options, Clark gripped Bruce's wrists and held him immobile. Bruce struggled, but he was no match for super strength. Clark's weariness grew. He hissed, with a trace of Superman's authority, "You're not going to listen, are you?"

Bruce's eyes shone of strong, unyielding determination.

"I don't want to do this, but you leave me no choice." Clark pulled out a transparent pill box. In it were a dozen plastic capsules, each in their own labeled partition. He flipped open the one labeled "#27" and forced it into Bruce's mouth. Teeth clamped down on his fingers, but invulnerability gave Clark the upper hand.

Then Clark leaned in and kissed those protesting lips. He pushed Bruce flush against the wall, silencing the man with his mouth. He claimed those lips so forcefully that it felt like an assault, a violation. Every futile push on his chest was a moment of torture. Every noise Bruce made as he struggled was a sound of agony.

At last, the kiss had drawn every remaining pocket of air out of Bruce's reserve. His eyes clouded. His upper body swayed as his strength declined. Clark pulled away. Instinctively Bruce coughed and swallowed, drawing in his first breath after prolonged suffocation. The capsule went down his throat as he did.

Bruce looked Clark in the eye, his face horror-stricken. What little trust that remained was quickly eroded by sharp, stinging betrayal.

"I'm sorry." Clark whispered. He leaned in again, kissing Bruce gently but firmly. This time he deliberately lengthened the kiss. He fully intended to draw the air out of Bruce's lungs. It lasted forever, but it wasn't enjoyable. It was soul-wrenching torture. With every passing second Clark felt his heart squeeze with unforgiving tightness. It felt as if he had ropes in his hands, and he was slowly strangling Bruce to death. Guilt corroded him like concentrated acid, marking his conscience with permanent scars. He kissed Bruce until he felt the man lean towards him like a boneless corpse. When he was certain that Bruce had fainted in his arms, he pulled away.

Clark felt like a murderer.


	8. The Recovery

" _#27: It was the summer of '96. Mid-July, a weekend. We were out in Centennial Park. Bruce was wearing a khaki sweatshirt. It was one of those rare times when he wasn't in black. Another rare time that he wasn't scowling, but wearing a light hearted smile. We chatted about…"_

Clark tapped his pen at his chin. Tentatively he wrote a little about the conversation. Then he wrote down a few more descriptions about how rare it was that Bruce wasn't acting all paranoid. He seemed genuinely relaxed, judging from his body language.

"…  _Bruce talked about Damian blaming Tim for triggering the Batcave security alarm. It was in the middle of the night and everyone got a bad fright. Bruce had instantly reached for a Batarang. The boys got into one hell of an argument. Then one shoved and the other slipped, and they both went tumbling down the staircase. At that, Bruce pulled his hand down his face and sighed, but following that was an exasperated smile. The sort that reminds you about how much he loves his kids, how much he enjoys spending time with them. Then it turns out it was Alfred who tripped the alarm when he was cleaning up crumbs in the Batcave…"_

Clark was giving away two memories at once, he supposed. But Bruce deserved to remember moments like those, even for a short few hours.

"…  _We sat down on one of the benches. It was lovely weather. Bruce kept that rare smile on his face when he talked. It was quite endearing. I remember the way he leaned in towards my direction, the occasional touch on my forearm. It were those tiny gestures that really got me wondering, what if…"_

Clark's hand paused mid-sentence. He started a new line.

"…  _It was that time, I think, that I got the impulse to shop for a ring. I wasn't even that certain that I'd pop the question, but it turned into a possibility. I thought maybe, with what little salary I had, I could find something simple and elegant. A ring that would fit around his finger, like a married life that would fit around his schedule. He gave me that smile again. It was like seeing rose gardens blossoming at the front of my house…"_

"…  _These are memories that I would never give away if I could help it. But I wish even for the shortest moment that Bruce would remember them as I did…"_

* * *

When Bruce woke again, he was calm and quiet. The benzodiazepine injection must have dulled his anxiety. Quickly he scanned his surroundings. Clark breathed a sigh of relief when he saw in Bruce's eyes his usual composure. He had reattained a grasp of recent happenings.

Some mornings, Bruce would be so reminiscent of his old self, that Clark would momentarily forget about his memory loss. It would last until Bruce asked for his name. Nevertheless, these small steps were rewarding enough in this long, tiring journey.

"How are you feeling?" Clark asked.

Bruce stared at him for a few seconds, then he answered, "Fine." Tentatively he pulled his hands out from underneath the covers. He clenched his fists before his eyes, testing the movement.

"This will be a little hard to take in, but bear with me." Clark backed a little into his chair. He began, like he usually did, "Your name is-"

"Bruce Wayne." Bruce interrupted. He did so without looking at Clark. Then Bruce clarified, quietly but without hesitation, "My name is Bruce Wayne."

Clark responded in stunned silence. His eyes widened, then his lips trembled.

"I'm thirty-five years old, son of Thomas and Martha Wayne." Bruce continued. His voice was unusually raw, but he forced himself to recite what he remembered. "You're Clark. Clark Kent. You're my…" He trailed off, but his gaze landed on Clark's ring.

"Your husband." Clark finished for him. The polite smile on his face broke into a big, genuine grin.

* * *

"Did you find the ring that you were looking for?" Bruce asked nonchalantly.

They were sitting on a bench in Centennial Park. In a way, it was a reenactment of the scene that Bruce remembered, but Clark didn't. A short conversation confirmed that Bruce's memory had not fully recovered. Thankfully, he knew enough to remain his usual self without an elaborate recount.

"It took a while," Clark recalled. Strolling around Metropolis's high-end shopping malls was no easy matter for a low-paid reporter. He had appreciated Lois's help with financial decision-making. "But eventually I did."

"What did it look like?" Bruce glanced at his own finger. It didn't have said ring.

"A thin strip of white gold, plated with rhodium. Back then, I couldn't afford a platinum ring." Clark chuckled. "You were adamant that it shouldn't interfere with your daily or nightly activities. It had to be lightweight. You hated anything that appeared too extravagant."

"Yours is yellow gold." Bruce remarked.

Clark raised his hand and inspected the ring. Proudly he declared, "You chose this one."

Bruce snorted. "We have issues with color coordination."

"I find it quite fitting." Clark smiled. "I soar under the sun, but you rise with the moon. Besides, it wouldn't do to match your monochrome outfits with bright yellow gold."

Bruce seemed to genuinely consider that for a moment. "Add to that yours doesn't wear off, but mine does." Without further clarification, he shrugged. "It sounds nice."

"I wonder where it went." Clark muttered, he too staring at Bruce's finger. That said, he didn't dwell on it. He'd just have to buy another one.

A passing couple from afar did a double take at them. The blond-haired woman who looked vaguely familiar started whispering to her middle-aged partner. The man, who had distinctive salt-and-pepper hair, looked stunned for a moment.

"I think I've seen her before somewhere." Clark muttered, staring at the woman.

Bruce followed his line of sight. "She looks like my therapist."

Clark clucked his tongue in realization. "She does, doesn't she?"

"I hate her." Bruce spat in distaste.

Clark rolled his eyes. "She's only doing her job, Bruce. You used to be such a gentleman."

"Selectively, I'm sure. The way she looks at me feels like she wants to wipe my ass out of existence." Bruce retorted.

"You're her patient. She's just trying to help." Clark chuckled. Though he did agree, Bruce's therapist had always been nicer to him than to Bruce. Still, Clark didn't think it was blatant discrimination. Bruce had never been any doctor's favorite, since fixing him up was a nightmare in itself. "But you've never been a good patient, so there's no reasoning with you."

"Whatever." Bruce squinted at the man with salt-and-pepper hair. "That man looks a bit like you."

"You're finding him hot?" Clark asked in mock horror.

"Presumptuous much?" Bruce lowered his voice to a teasing tone. "Who said you're hot?"

"You did marry me, Bruce. I'm just giving myself due credit."

"I'm shocked beyond words, Kansas. I have been such terrible influence on you."

"Oh, now you know."

Meanwhile, the man seemed to be arguing with the therapist lookalike. He broke off the argument in a frustrated wave of hands. Then he started walking towards Clark and Bruce.

Bruce raised an eyebrow when he saw the man headed their way. "Trouble alert." He grunted. Gripping Clark by the hand, he asked, "Are you up for a game of hide and seek?"

"Now?" Clark glanced down at his checkered shirt. "I'm in civilian clothes."

"Isn't Superman supposed to be faster than a speeding bullet?" Bruce countered easily. "As far as I remember, the human eye isn't trained to capture anything at that speed." He whispered into Clark's ear. "Take me somewhere crowded. We don't need the interruption."

Clark caught sight of the man who was briskly coming their way. "You asked." He swept Bruce into his arms and sped off.

Behind him, the man paused in his footsteps. He hesitated for a moment, glancing down at his own dress shirt. Then he cursed under his breath and returned to the blond-haired woman.

* * *

Clark lowered Bruce to the ground outside of a museum. The hall was swamped with people, so they walked along its border towards the front garden.

A banner was stretched across the museum facade. "In celebration of Edgar Allan Poe's birthday," it read.

Clark stepped aside to let a child in a raven costume pass. Loose black feathers fell to the ground in his wake.

"He looks more like a peacock than a raven." Bruce remarked. His eyes followed another group of children wearing similar costumes.

"You're not here to ruin a five year old's day, are you?" Clark chuckled.

"Of course not," Bruce gave him a stern glare, but the glint in his eyes shone of mischief. "Who do you think I am, the Batman?"

"Oh, I doubt that."

They found an empty bench and resumed their private afternoon chat. More black peacocks strolled past and left feathers on the ground.

Bruce leaned forward and picked up a feather. "I liked 'The Raven'," he mused aloud.

"Really?" Clark replied. "I don't." At Bruce's raised eyebrow, he added, "'A Dream Within a Dream', that I do. I'd consider that my favorite."

"Ironic," Bruce commented.

It took a second for Clark to process that comment, then he nodded grimly. "Indeed."

Bruce shrugged. "It's good literature."

"I'm not denying that. But 'The Raven'," Clark heaved a sigh. "Rao, I hated it. I really did."

"Maybe you really hated the subject is all, Clark." Bruce retorted. "Some people suck at English literature."

"Bruce, I'm an investigative reporter. I think I've been pretty coherent in all things language-based."

Bruce studied his expression. He leaned in a slight bit, showing his interest. The posture reminded Clark of what he wrote in his entry for the memory capsule. "Well, what did you hate?"

Clark wrung his hands nervously for a moment. He looked away, towards a group of costumed children that had just leaped off a bus. They were headed their way, all dressed in black feathers. "There's a line, in the third last stanza, I think." He recited, "Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Bruce nodded slowly. "Yes, he was asking whether he'd see his lover again, in heaven."

Suddenly it didn't seem like a conversation either of them wanted to carry on. It was no longer a harmless discussion of literature, but something personal and hurtful. Clark's eyes were pained when he looked up, and his voice was grim when he spoke, "We both know what the raven said."

"Nevermore!" The passing children shouted together. They giggled and clapped as their mothers urged them past.

"Sorry, they couldn't resist." A woman grinned sheepishly and apologized.

"But they're right." Another mother joined in.

"Have a good day, gramps!"

"Children will be children."

The crowd walked away, loud and cheery, everything that Clark was not. He looked as if he had just received a square punch at his gut. At the outburst, his face had turned ashen. Almost imperceptibly, he sank deeper into his seat.

Bruce's hand gripped Clark's trembling palm. Yet he echoed, almost like a reminder to himself, "Nevermore."


	9. The Night

They were laughing, stumbling, not knowing where they were headed. At some point, Clark had completely lost his orientation. Bruce pushed him down onto a leather couch. It was broken, torn, and the leather didn't have the slightest shine remaining. Yet Clark didn't struggle. Bruce got on top of him and kissed him with fervor. He was always beautifully demanding, stubbornly dominating.

"Where are we?" Clark asked in the short moments between Bruce's claims on his mouth.

"What does it matter, Boy Scout?" Bruce managed to scoot underneath him and exchange positions. "Is there a house rule that you have to go home before ten?" His smirk was characteristically sly.

"We don't want to get caught having sex in a Gotham alleyway at three in the morning, do we?"

Bruce pulled him down by the collar. "Unfortunately for you, that proposal sounds quite appealing to me."

"You need serious help, Bruce."

"Why else would a grown man be dressed in an animal costume?"

Clark pulled away in a sudden astonishment. "Did you just mock your own Batsuit? You would never have done that in the past."

"We're not here to discuss the past." Bruce bit his earlobe as he hissed, just a soft breath against his sensitive skin. "It's all about the present. Seize it or lose it."

Clark struggled to clear his head. "We might have had too much to drink."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "Oh for God's sake, stop spoiling the mood."

Clark grinned. He had never been so eager to oblige.

* * *

It was morning when Clark was awakened by a rough yank on his half-open shirt. "Jesus Christ, Kal. Do you know how long I've been searching for you?"

He opened his eyes to a middle-aged man, with salt-and-pepper-hair and a chiseled face. The man glared at him in frustration. Somehow his features were quite familiar. Those clear blue eyes were reminiscent of someone Clark once held dear. It seemed that Bruce wasn't the only one with memory loss. Bruce woke up the moment Clark was pulled off the couch. The man was incredibly strong.

"You didn't leave any message at the Fortress, and there was no GPS on you. I scanned every street in Metropolis and Gotham looking for you. Did you know how worried I was?" The man rambled on.

At the corner of his eye, Clark noticed Bruce's eyes narrowing in annoyance. The man triggered the wrong pair. "I'm sorry, Sir, I think you've gotten the wrong man." Clark tried without resorting to using his strength. Such mornings were rare, and he didn't want to ruin it with flying punches.

"Why are you calling me…?" The man's grip on his collar loosened. His eyes widened, his jaw slacked.

"What's your problem? You're looking for a fight?" Bruce came up and snapped. He glared at the man until he backed away.

"Kal. You-" The man stumbled away, falling on his behind. He scrambled up immediately. Horror filled his expression. "Dinah was right. I didn't want to believe it, but she was right."

"Get out before you get yourself hurt." Bruce snarled. That was the last warning the man needed. He leaped back, and to both of their surprise, flew off into the sky.

"Looks like superpowers aren't all that rare." Clark muttered after a stunned pause.

"Hmph. Drunkards." Bruce laid back onto the couch and shut his eyes.

"Did you see his shirt? I quite like it." Clark climbed back onto the couch. He drew his finger teasingly across Bruce's chest. He was tracing a letter that once meant something significant to him. In that moment, it was just one of twenty-six alphabets. Nothing truly mattered, not when he was holding Bruce in his arms.

"Yeah, a big 'S' at the front, who hasn't seen that before? Self-entitled little shit." Bruce said sarcastically. "Tell me something I don't know."

"You sure?" Clark laid a gentle kiss on Bruce's nose. "I was going to show you."

Bruce smirked and drew him down again. "Don't make me beg for it."


	10. The Promise

"I've had this before, haven't I?" Bruce looked at the capsule in his hand. He rolled it in his palm.

Clark nodded pensively. They were standing across each other in his apartment, and the sun was setting behind them. He planned it to be a special evening. He had prepared a speech, but he wanted Bruce to remember an event before it happened. The function of the memory capsule, however... That was one thing Clark didn't want Bruce to remember. Nonetheless, God seemed to be playing with his chances.

"When I take it, I'll remember something from the past." Bruce's voice was certain and emotionally detached. Somehow, he had figured it out.

Clark supposed at some point Bruce would, for all his intelligence and perceptiveness. He just didn't want it to be this night. Still, he admitted, "Yes."

"Something tells me we've had this conversation before."

Clark locked eyes with the detective. He sighed. "Yes, we have."

"But I don't have the memory that you gave me before." Bruce's eyebrows furrowed. "I forget them." He concluded.

Clark shook his head. He felt like a criminal stuck in an interrogation. Facing Batman, no less.

"I forget them, don't I?" Bruce pressed. His voice caught onto a new urgency. "Tell me."

"Your brain cannot retain memories." Clark breathed out slowly. "It keeps a memory for a while, long enough for…" He bit his lower lip. "Then it slips. It goes… and doesn't come back."

"You said… You said I've gotten better." Bruce muttered. Disappointment marred his voice.

Clark nodded. "You have." He said carefully. Then, with a pause, he added quietly, "I never said you've fully recovered." _I don't think you ever will._

Bruce seemed to have understood the unspoken. For a silent moment, he seemed to be warring with himself. Then his disappointment melted into dejected understanding. Slowly his gaze landed on the capsule. "What's in there?"

"I don't remember." Clark replied. It wasn't a lie.

"You don't remember." Bruce repeated. His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I… don't. No." Clark admitted. There, his secret was out.

Bruce regarded him for an odd few seconds. There was a dangerous undertone to his voice when he spoke, "This is what's been happening? You've been _donating_  memories to me?"

"I didn't know what else to do." Clark said defensively. "It doesn't matter… What's done is done."

Bruce sat down on the couch and held his forehead silently. Those suffocating seconds strangled Clark, muting his hope for the night. He was certain that all his efforts were lost to Bruce's distrust. That fragile connection that he had strengthened in the past few days, lost in one confession.

At last, Bruce sighed. "What's done is done." He turned the capsule in his fingers, grimacing. "If you know the side-effects, I'm sure you've taken precautions." The look he sent Clark dared him to say he was dumb enough to not have done so. "You know what's in there."

"It's… an important memory." Clark answered truthfully. Regardless of everything, he smiled. His thoughts seemed to be far away. He was no longer looking at the capsule, but at Bruce. "It was the happiest day of my life. I want you to share it."

Bruce frowned. "Sharing implies that we both have it."

Clark shook his head, still stretching a wistful smile across his face. "Then that's not how the world works."

"You're an idiot." Bruce snapped. "Stop donating memories, Clark. It doesn't help either of us." He put the capsule back onto Clark's palm, and folded his hand. At Clark's protest, Bruce's glare softened. "Show me your memory. Show me how it was, where we were. We can build these new memories together."

* * *

Clark flew them to Smallville. At Bruce's questioning glance, he led them out onto the unending spans of meadows. Moonlight draped across them like satin, its touch light, smooth, and soft. Clark seemed to have memorized every turn. They found a soft patch of land that offered their backs the comfort of a mattress. They laid down in the lawn, hand in hand, shoulders touching. In the vast, undisturbed lands, it was only them, gazing up at the stars beneath the velvety night sky.

For a long while, they didn't speak. At hearing Bruce's relaxed heart beat, Clark sighed. "We should have done this right from the start."

"I'm aware of that." Bruce replied. In reluctant acknowledgement of Clark's efforts, he added, "If I had known, I would have helped. That is, if you had debriefed me on the situation, instead of trying to handle everything on your own."

"Love makes one blind." Clark smiled. He got a low grunt as an answer.

For some time they were completely immersed in the silent beauty of the night sky. Absorbed were they in the freedom and privacy that seemed so rare, and so precious. The grass was soft on their backs, with each breeze came a gentle hum that urged Clark to find his courage. Clark's hand swiped past his pocket thrice, but each time he hesitated and lowered his arm again.

At last, Bruce heaved a sigh. "You know my answer, Clark."

Clark stayed silent for a second, then with a soft chuckle, he complained, "You didn't even let me ask."

Bruce cocked an eyebrow challengingly. "Were you going to? I was waiting."

"At some point in the next three hours, I would have summoned the necessary amount of courage."

"You've asked once. Though it feels like centuries and millennia ago, you did." Bruce's voice was as certain as it was in their wedding video, when he restated his vows for the world to hear. "And for all those years combined, my answer hasn't changed."

Clark smiled. His hand went to his pocket, and he pulled out a ring. "Hold up your hand." He asked, without looking at Bruce. The man held up his hand lazily.

"Popping the question on our backs. This is relaxing." Bruce mused aloud.

"We've done it the proper way, now we're doing it the romantic way." Clark held Bruce's hand and gently slid the ring onto Bruce's finger. "It fits perfectly."

Bruce held up his hand before his eyes and stared at the ring. He scrutinized it for a moment and wagged his finger to test the weight. "You went for platinum?"

"It won't wear down this time."

Bruce turned to him. "This time it's for eternity, isn't it?"

Clark propped himself up and pressed a soft kiss onto Bruce's forehead. "Every time it's for eternity, Bruce. Every time."

Clark held Bruce's hand and brushed his finger against the ring. Suddenly a vision flashed before his eyes.

_That same strip of white gold, worn over time, wrapped around someone's finger. The skin was wrinkled, the flesh was cold. The ring left an ugly purple band on skin that had almost dulled to ashen. He had watched that body disappear from sight, watched a lid be placed on top of a coffin._

Clark instinctively brought up a topic that he otherwise would have avoided. Somehow, he wanted to know.

"Bruce," Clark whispered. He kept his eyes on the stars. "Do you believe in heaven?"

Bruce's reply was quick and precise. "Technically, no."

"Right." Clark chuckled. "Technically is how Batman's mind works."

"It's not how Bruce Wayne's mind works." Bruce countered nonchalantly. "If there is no afterworld, what will we strive for?"

"Say there is one…" Clark whispered, "What will you do for millennia…"  _while I am alive and you are gone?_

"Enjoy my retirement." Bruce answered without missing a beat. At Clark's silence, he sighed, "Put on a cloak and be intimidating around other souls, I suppose. My lifelong career."

"I thought there'd be no crime in heaven for you to fight." Clark mused aloud.

"I'll probably be in hell, Clark." Bruce propped himself up. His face was serious. Clark's eyes widened as expected.

"Don't say that."

"Why not?" Bruce rolled his eyes. "In essence, I'm not a good person. I've done plenty of justified things, but I'm clinically a psychopath with violent tendencies. Just with an intelligent mind and a stubborn fixation for my own sense of justice."

Clark shook his head. "Don't say that."

"You asked. I'm just being honest." Bruce laid back down. "But if the ruler of the afterworld gave me a choice, you know what I'd be?"

"Commander of Hades's Secret Service?"

"... I'm burning all your James Bond DVDs."

"Well, tell me." Clark prompted, suddenly interested.

Bruce looked contemplative for a moment. "I'd be a raven."

"A raven?" Clark frowned. "You mean the bird?"

"Surprised?" Bruce cocked an eyebrow.

"No, not really." Clark smiled, remembering his Robins. "Why not? Your entire house is filled with flying animals, big and small." He sensed Bruce's annoyance without needing a response. When Bruce refused to continue his explanation, Clark prompted again. "Tell me why then."

"I'd be a guardian for someone." Bruce answered. There was a bittersweet quality to his explanation. "A messenger, when their time is near."

"Whose guardian?" Clark muttered. "Because if you say Dick, I'll be really-"

Bruce's lips silenced him with a soft, gentle kiss. "Who do you think?"

Clark grinned. "You're such a tease. You'd turn into a harmless flying animal for me?"

"Emphasize harmless again and you're dead."

"I'll want to be dead, when you're a free raven roaming the underworld, sending lost souls their Valentine's." Clark murmured thoughtfully. "It'll be a long wait before I get your invitation then, I suppose?"

"The longer the wait, the sweeter the kiss."

"I'll hold that against you, Bruce. If that kiss isn't as good as you've promised, we'll have to do it again and again, until I'm satisfied."

Bruce smirked. He climbed up and gave Clark another kiss, then another again, again and again. "But you're never satisfied."

Clark looked into clear blue eyes and smiled. "Exactly."


	11. The Awakening

With a sigh, Clark placed the pill box back into his mirror cabinet. It was the memory of his wedding night. Bruce had made him keep it. And if he were to be selfishly but painfully honest, he wanted to keep that memory, too. It was a beautiful ordeal. During the day they were surrounded by friends and family. Everyone offered their heartfelt congratulations. But the night they spent alone. They laid on a lawn in Smallville, watching the stars with their shoulders touching. It was a memory that Clark didn't want to forget.

There were a few other bottles in the cabinet. Clark shook his head tiredly at the scene. Then he closed the door to the mirror cabinet.

Suddenly he found himself eye-to-eye with a white-haired old man.

"Rao!" He blurted out in shock, stumbling back.

The man mirrored his expression until he fell to the ground with a dull thump. The hit hurt his back, and Clark felt like he had crushed something in his body, but he couldn't tell what. Albeit his pain, he managed to crawl out of the bathroom. Everything was swimming in his peripheral vision.

He needed water. He scrambled up from the ground to his bed, then he crawled past the mattress to where his glass was. He drank a mouthful, but it didn't help. He realized with startling pain that he couldn't feel one of his legs. Just one, as if he had recently injured his right foot. He didn't know why.

He lowered his glass. Then he swung his head back to his bedside table. Amidst his dark bedroom, he saw Bruce's cane, leaning against his bed. A soft breeze came round from behind the curtains, and knocked the cane to the floor. It hit with a clank.

Clark scrambled back against the headboard. His heart was pounding furiously in his chest. His right ankle hurt, hurt like he had sprained it, like ligaments were torn. His chest hurt, like there was a hole right above his heart, like flesh had been carved out when he was not looking. His back hurt, where he had fallen to the floor. He moved, and his arm knocked the glass of water off his bedside table. It crashed into a million scattered pieces. His other hand caught white strands on his pillow case. Frantically he looked around, then he knocked down another small bottle. It rolled to his hip and stayed there, until he moved and picked it up.

He only meant to put it back onto a flat surface, but when he held it up he did a double take. It said "PTSD", and it said "Bruce Wayne", right under it. Right there. It was right there. He squinted, then to his utmost horror, the alphabets swam and rearranged. Some disappeared, some reappeared. It no longer said "PTSD", it said "Alzheimer's".

He drew his eyes away, unable to process the information. Breathing heavy, he pulled open his drawer, hoping to find something of consolation. Laying on top was his marriage certificate. It was a little crumpled, a little yellow, but it didn't matter. It were his and Bruce's names, united in the holy bonds of matrimony, was what it said. It were his and Bruce's signatures, signed across the bottom of the page. He almost breathed a sigh of relief, then his vision blurred. It cleared to reveal another document.

"City of Gotham," he read. His hands shook. They signed their marriage certificate in Metropolis. Brightly lit halls, smiling staff offering their congratulations, it was Metropolis. All his life, he had only received one official document from Gotham.

_"Certificate of Death."_

An invisible hand gripped his heart, tearing it apart, drawing its remains out of his rib cage.

_"Name of Deceased: Bruce Thomas Wayne…"_

Clark leaped off his bed and felt his bones cracking at the sudden movement. He didn't feel decades old. He felt as if he had lived centuries, millennia, for the groan of his joints screamed for him to stop. But he crawled down onto the floor anyway. His movements were frantic. Sweat formed on his forehead. Painstakingly he pulled himself past the threshold between carpet and tiles. Then he jerked the cabinet open without another look at the mirror.

His shaking hands came to gather the bottles that were standing in the cabinet. Bottles of different heights and transparency, clashing into one another at his touch. They fell into the sink, making a series of clattering noises.

"Hallucinations," Clark read from a bottle. "Hallucinations," he repeated, his jaw slack from saying the word.

He held up his hands and started to scream, but no sound came out of his throat. In frightening lucidity, his vision of his hands merged and separated again. Suddenly he was looking at two rings, one on each ring finger. The one on his left hand was the one he had always worn, the bright yellow gold that matched with the golden sun. But the one on his right… it was platinum, the cold, monochrome shade meant for the Dark Knight. Bruce's ring, on his finger.

In full panic, he wrenched the ring off his finger, but it sucked onto his skin like nothing else. Only then did he realize that his skin was so wrinkled, so loose, that the ring wouldn't come off. It wouldn't budge, not like how it would on Bruce's smooth toned skin. He took a sharp object and started slicing off flesh, no longer able to feel pain. He felt nothing beyond his haunting realization.

Flashbacks started occurring in painful clarity.

Dinah… That was her name. Dinah whose name was passed down for generations from her mother's side. Dinah was talking to him. She had always been talking to him, restating that he had dementia and DID, telling him not to give up... It wasn't Bruce who kept losing his memories, who couldn't retain his memories no matter what. Clark had been justifying his memory loss ever since Bruce's amnesiac episodes had begun. Symptoms of depersonalization and derealization... Dinah was telling Clark to take his medicine, the bottles that laid in the sink... Those psychotherapy sessions weren't for Bruce. They were never for Bruce.

That morning, when that middle-aged man found him, it wasn't Bruce who glared at him, it was Clark. Clark who threatened him and ushered him away. That man, aged beyond recognition… It was Conner. Conner hadn't seen Bruce. It was Clark who snarled at him. Bruce never existed outside of his mind.

Clark was seeing crimson. Slowly he realized that blood was streaming onto the stark white surface of the basin. A razor. He had cut himself on a Kryptonite-laced razor. His artery was open. Blood was flowing out of his body onto stone-cold material. As cold as Bruce's gravestone, as cold as Bruce's body six feet under, if there was anything that remained after years of decomposition. He knew Bruce was gone and he had fallen into complete, utter madness because-

Clark looked up from the basin, beyond the bedroom, out towards the window sill.

The raven was watching him.

He forced his trembling hand to hold up the bottle marked "Alzheimer's". Moisture was building up at his eyes, blocking his vision. He squinted at the font below. Beneath the blurry marks of blood, he read the unmistakable print on the label.

It no longer said "Bruce Wayne".

It said "Clark Kent".


	12. The Quote

"Conner."

The younger man perked up at the name. His eyes were wide. "Clark. You… you remember me." He lowered himself to his knees on his bedside. "You remember me." He choked out in a relieved gasp.

Clark raised his arm and brushed through graying strands. Even on Conner.

"How long has it been since I last remembered you?" He asked, dreading the answer.

"Months, almost a year. Your memory lapsed… The Fortress's history of your medications and psychotherapy got increasingly jumbled. At some point, you've lost your memories of me… You fought me." Conner sighed. "A part of me, I think, knew who you were with… Who you chose to believe you were with… And I struggled. I struggled because I didn't want to wake you…"

"I thought… I thought you were happier, when you didn't remember." Conner smiled weakly. "You went to Centennial Park and we saw you there, wearing a khaki sweatshirt. You were on a bench, sitting there and murmuring to yourself, and you looked happy."

Clark shut his eyes. So Bruce wasn't there, after all. A part of him wished Conner didn't confirm his guess. The painful truth haunted him once more. "I probably was."

He was lying in a hospital bed. His surroundings were no longer comprised of twentieth-century equipment, but objects so high-tech that he couldn't discern their function. The only thing that hadn't changed was the cardiac monitor, which was letting out a soft rhythmic beep in conjunction with his beating heart. He still felt the dull ache of Kryptonite, reminding him of his somber realization.

"How did I get here?" Clark asked, desperate to change the topic.

Conner scratched the back of his neck nervously. "Well, you wouldn't believe me even if I told you."

Mustering a grin, Clark said, "Try me."

"I got a call from your phone." Conner began hesitantly. "I got one word. 'Help'. It was the same word over and over again, and the accent was odd. You know what I saw when I flew into your apartment? You in a pool of blood, lying on the tiled floor. Your heart beat was so weak, and you were barely breathing… I was so afraid. So afraid that I've lost you…" Conner's voice wavered slightly. "The window was open. Your phone was on the bed, but beside it, there was a black feather."

Clark's heart rate surged at the mention, and Conner gave him a look of alarm. But it only lasted a moment. Clark's heightened heart rate calmed into a slower pace as he regained his thoughts.

"I've waited too long for that invitation." Clark said eventually. He felt a burning sensation in his chest. It was a warning sign that everyone around him had had, and he had waited for, but never came. Now the long-awaited suffocation came with just the right weight, just the right amount of pressure. "I don't have long to live, do I?"

Conner avoided his eyes, but his look was painful and knowing. Terminal lucidity in Alzheimer's patients was the final warning. A momentary awakening, followed by a plunge into deep, everlasting sleep.

"I can feel it. This life… slipping out of me. I'm so close to my next destination." He said it with hope, but he knew the younger man didn't hear it as such.

Conner's fists tightened. His knuckles were white.

"It's all right." Clark smiled. "You know, when I was decades old, I dreaded immortality. I dreaded watching my family and friends pass away, but being one of the few caged in haunting eternity. When I reached my thousandth birthday, I got my first white hair. It's a cowardly thing to admit to, but I rejoiced at my first sign of decline."

"I think I can understand that." Conner's tight smile relaxed when Clark's hand came to ruffle his hair. There were many strands of white mixed in gray, many strands of gray mixed in black. His journey was still long, but Clark's… Clark had almost walked his entire path.

"And still… still the wait was long. Too long." Clark chuckled wistfully. "I've tasted every flavor of ice cream humans have managed to invent, and still nothing beats strawberry. Someone would argue nothing beats chocolate, and I might even agree for once. Don't even get me started on the one that tasted like overcooked cabbage."

His chuckle gave way to a more contemplative smile. "I've met more people than anyone on this Earth. For thousands of years I have sought after populations, looking for someone to love and cherish. I know he would have wanted me to find someone… And I've tried, I really did. But thousands of years have passed… And I have yet to find someone as captivating, as worthy of love, as Bruce."

Conner's hand gripped his, with a hard squeeze that felt most empathetic.

"If death has come to claim my life - a vastly over-lived life of a weary old man - then I wish it would take me to him… Where in death, we shall never part."

* * *

The clock ticked midnight.

Clark looked up at the open windows. The familiar raven had come soundlessly and landed on his window sill. It perched there, still and watching.

"I've been waiting." Clark whispered. He stretched his hand towards the bird. Despite the dimness of his room, he noticed how every patch of his skin was now dry, wrinkled, and spotted.

The raven gently lifted its wings and drifted into mid-air. In a ruffle of feathers, a dark figure materialized at his bedside. It slowly came around to look at him, studying Clark with its mesmerizing eyes.

In death, Bruce retained the appearance of his most healthy, beautiful state. So tempting, so impeccably flawless, that he looked most surreal. He was as much a devil reincarnated as he was an angel descended. A being to seize Clark with the inevitable strangle of mortality, as much as one to light a path of salvation away from loneliness and misery.

"Come onto my bed." Clark said softly. "Just lay down with me." His heart clenched with unforgiving strength. Each pump was more difficult than the last.

The mattress didn't sink with Bruce's weight. There was an ethereal quality to his movements, to the natural grace that he exhibited. His touch was cold and featherweight. He simply belonged to another world.

"Did you know?" Clark whispered. "When you were standing on top of the fountain, watching me… You've known, haven't you?"

Bruce snuggled closer to his chest. He didn't respond.

Clark combed soft hair in his hands, and felt feathers brushing back at his fingertips. "I don't mind… I'm thankful. Thankful that I get to see you again, before proceeding to my next destination." A grim smile formed on his face. "I've counted hundreds and thousands of years alone. I've lived my life with purpose, as you would have wished. Saving more lives and reuniting more families than I could ever have counted. And now…" His eyes took in the face that he had waited to see again. Suddenly he was afraid. Afraid that their reunion would be as brief as the decades they shared, compared to an eon of separation. He shut his eyes, tuning out his apprehension, savoring just the touch on his hands. "Now it's my turn. It's been thousands of years, Bruce. Thousands…"

"Clark."

Clark blinked and opened his eyes. Bruce's eyes gazed into his own, a gaze meaningful and wise and full of longing. "I've promised you eternity. I haven't forgotten."

His hand brushed across Clark's chest. There was a ring on his finger, a platinum ring, a symbol of love's everlasting endurance. One wave ceased the straining pressure on Clark's heart. It ended all traces of pain and replaced it with peace.

The sensation of coarse feathers on Clark's fingertips softened into the familiar texture of skin. It radiated a warmth that was unique, that Clark had not felt for millennia. He knew without question that he was holding his beloved. The man whose existence defined him in more ways than he could ever have imagined. The sensation belonged to a lifetime ago, but it was finally back on his touch.

Soft lips brushed onto his own. A gentle, promising kiss. It was as good as Bruce had promised, but still it left Clark yearning for more. He knew the kiss was set to become a lasting memory, for as long as he could retain it. He wouldn't have to, not for long.

"I've been waiting." Bruce whispered, like an echo to Clark's yearning. "For thousands of years, Clark."

Clark smiled. His once thumping heart dulled to a gentle beating, to a powerless squeeze. Bruce's hand enveloped his own. It was Bruce's wrist that was throbbing with life, while taking his own.

"Tell me truly, I implore…" Clark managed with his last breath. He needed to know. Though perhaps, at mid-sentence, he had already known the raven's quote.

A finger pressed softly onto his lips, silencing his question. It was Bruce's reassuring smile that filled his last vision before it dimmed to darkness.

"... In death we shall be reunited, forevermore."


End file.
